


our bodies possessed by light

by natlet



Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 22:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8226773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natlet/pseuds/natlet
Summary: your escape is once again narrow, but this time you both seem to know it.





	

-  
  
_Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake_  
_and dress them in warm clothes again._  
  
-

your escape is once again narrow, but this time you both seem to know it. you're deep within the wrecks before flint stops, pulls you with him into the tentative shelter of a ruined hull, tucks you back into the shadows. you listen closely, but hear no trace of the men who had pursued you from nassau - just flint's choked, ragged breathing, and your own, and the sea against the rocky beach below. you could probably hear your leg screaming, if that were a sound. 

he whispers: "are you all right?" 

you want to tell him he's gone fucking mad. of course you're not all right. you're losing. the war - he must see it. you see it, and he'd taught you everything. your army is not much of an army these days; the walrus waits at sea, a rendezvous planned in a few days' time, but for now your men are fractured, scattered across the interior. you haven't seen anyone but the good english citizens of nassau and him in days. you want to tell him he's got to stop this; lead the men from the forest under a flag of truce, beg forgiveness, find a way to spare what lives he can. you want to tell him he's got to get out of here before this kills him. his hands are clenched tight in the lapels of your coat, his body hot and heavy and solid against yours, and you know there's no use saying any of it - it would ruin him to hear it. this goes beyond nassau for him. for the both of you. you can feel his heart beating like it's inside your own chest, and you close your eyes, press your forehead to his. you try to catch your breath. 

you'd never stopped to ask yourself when his war had become your war; when you'd begun to believe it, to fight with this ferocity, this particular conviction, born of a pain you've never felt. it had never seemed to be something that should matter. but perhaps never is a word that belongs in the past, with the other words about absolutes you used to say and think you meant - nothing, and always, and everyone. you are less sure of things these days. you've taken to carrying a gun.

you've escaped injury this time, and to your knowledge, he has as well; you check each other over anyway, quickly, hands slipping beneath layers of cloth and leather, skin seeking skin. it's become habit - he'd started it, but you allow it to continue. you understand his need for closeness, for contact, and you've begun to share it - to find yourself longing for the press of your hand to his cheek, his warm breath on your skin. there's a certainty in it, a steady sort of grounding that you suspect you've both found your world sorely lacking in lately. he sleeps most nights in your arms, now; you cannot pinpoint when it began, but then again, you don't want to. you've grown entirely too accustomed to the gentle rasp of his breath, the weight of his head on your shoulder, and part of you thinks that perhaps if it's always been like this, then it always will - just the two of you, and the darkness, and the things in the trees.

he looks at you sometimes in a way that almost frightens you - dark and close and serious, intimate in a way you can't explain. you want to know what he's thinking, when he looks at you like that. you need him, in a way you never considered you could need a human being other than yourself; fundamentally, like you were created when you met him, the first lines in a story about an englishman named john silver spoken that day belowdecks. your life before him seems muted and distant and faint, like it had been lived by someone else. you wonder if this is what love feels like. 

you say: "we should go." he nods, and you feel the brush of his beard against your cheek. together, you slip from your momentary refuge and into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry about my Questionable Stylistic Choices, i read too much poetry on monday
> 
> title/italics: [Scheherazade by Richard Siken](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/scheherazade-crush-by-richard-siken/)


End file.
